


all roads, they lead me here

by knightcaptain



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Awkward First Times, F/M, Fluff and Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-30
Updated: 2016-06-30
Packaged: 2018-07-19 04:15:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7344505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/knightcaptain/pseuds/knightcaptain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carver and Merrill get it on... in the cutest way possible.</p>
            </blockquote>





	all roads, they lead me here

**Author's Note:**

  * For [VarricTethras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/VarricTethras/gifts).



She lightly trails her finger over his forearm, which makes his spine tingle -- Carver decides he’s not at all used to this, not with the way she’s looking at him, but he likes it. It’s the kind of look that’s often directed at his older sibling, not at him -- the word here must be something along the lines of ‘adoration’ or ‘infatuation’, Carver guesses -- and to be on the receiving end this time is… well…

When Merrill giggles, Carver snaps out of it. “What?” he asks, a little too roughly -- he watches her face for a reaction, an indication that he’s being far too rude again.

She merely smiles in response, and shakes her head. “I -- it’s nothing, really. Just… I don’t recall ever seeing you this nervous.”

“Nervous?” A forced laugh. “I’m not nervous. Who’s -- who’s nervous?”

The inside of her house is dimly lit, and Carver’s tripped over more than a handful of books on his way in, but somehow her eyes are defiant and bright. Whether it’s because they’ve finally found some time together alone or because Hawke is far, far away on the Wounded Coast, doing something to maintain the prestige surrounding their name or both, Carver doesn’t really care. There’s this incessant fluttering in his chest whenever she looks his way, and he wonders how he’s gotten so lucky.

Merrill rests a hand over his wrist. “Don’t worry. I babble more than all of you combined when I’m nervous, myself -- I’d say you’re doing fine, but then I wouldn’t want to trivialize anything -- especially not when it comes to you, and --”

“Merrill,” Carver cuts in, foolish grin on his face.

The elf stops, bringing a hand to her chest. “Oh. There I go again.”

“That’s fine. That’s --” Carver shrugs, staring at the candle on the table. Watching the flame devour the wax, one painfully long second at a time. “It’s fine.”

“Are you alright, Carver?” she asks. He almost shudders at the way she says his name, like it’s something precious or -- important. It almost feels wrong, or out of place, but then he remembers her question and he remembers that he needs to answer her.

He puts on his best smile -- he never smiles, only frowns or grimaces, according to Varric -- and places a hand over hers. “I’m good, Merrill. Don’t worry about me.”

“Oh, that’s good.” Merrill nods. “You just look a little -- I don’t know, pale? Should I prepare a poultice? I have plenty, in case of mishaps and --”

“I just really want to kiss you, is all,” he blurts in the middle of her rambling.

They both fall silent at the same time, and suddenly Carver is unable to look at her. Again. _Oh, for the love of the Maker, why can’t you do this right?_ The silence between them is heavy with something. Worry and fear flares at the corners of his mind, but he reminds himself that they’re still holding hands -- and that Merrill hasn’t yet asked him to leave. Why would she? Why wouldn’t she?

He clears his throat -- just as their eyes meet again and she speaks. “I -- thought I was the only one thinking that,” she admits shakily. “Ha. It would -- it would be nice, wouldn’t it?”

Carver shrugs, playing it cool -- but inside there is a deep, aching yearning he isn’t quite used to. It’s different, it’s terrifying, and he doesn’t understand it. Yet. “It would be.”

Another moment passes between them. Carver feels like he’s about to explode, like something is clawing its way out of him, come hell or high water, when suddenly he feels a weight on his lap and his vision filled with Merrill. When he feels her lips on his, he thinks he’s going to pass out -- the world slips and tilts sideways, and it takes him a split second to realize that it was Merrill pushing them both off balance -- he instinctively wraps his arms around her, bracing for impact --

 _Crash_.

A beat passes, and Merrill is giggling into the curve of his neck. Carver groans, the taste of her mouth still very fresh in his mind, and crumples as they roll off the chair. Something snaps and hits the wooden floorboard, and Carver dares to look.

“I’ll fix the chair. I’ll -- fix that later,” he says dumbly, still holding Merrill in his arms. She laughs again and adjusts herself so that she’s straddling him, hair falling over her eyes like a vision -- Carver suddenly finds it difficult to breathe.

“That’s alright,” Merrill says, breathless herself. “I -- um. That was… my fault, anyway. Sorry. Let me try again.”

 _Try again? Try wh- oh_. Carver’s mind goes into overdrive at the taste of her lips, and his hands come around her waist. He wonders about the magic in her fingers when she runs them through his hair -- he swears he’s a little electrified, sparks running up and down his spine at every light tug. He’s never imagined it would happen like this -- in his mind, he’s slightly more suave and he doesn’t trip over himself or his words -- but there’s really nothing to complain about.

She smells like the forest. Like rain. He wonders if all Dalish elves are like that, or just her -- _mm, no_ , he thinks distractedly, nipping at her lower lip. _She’s special. No one else like her._ Merrill squeaks in response, muffled by the kiss, but doesn’t pull away -- she grows just a fraction more enthusiastic and Carver’s hands begin to travel and wander, so enamored by everything she’s doing.

His heart flutters in harmony to the stirring in his abdomen. Carver pushes back gently against her kisses, sitting up slowly as his mind is lit afire with a single purpose. Merrill eventually relents, resurfacing for air -- her cheeks are pink, and Carver decides that she suits the color very well.

“Oh,” Merrill mumbles, more to herself. “I’ve never done this before. It’s quite exciting. Isabela was right.”

“Isabela?” Carver shakes his head. “Never mind. Come here. We’re not finished, are we?”

Merrill laughs, shifting herself so she can wrap her legs around his waist. So small, so beautiful. Carver marvels at his luck for the second time that evening -- and pulls her in for another kiss. Her hands are cold against his chest, slipping underneath his tunic to trace his collarbones, his chest -- he grows more bold, the further down her hands slip, and soon he figures they’d both be better off divested of all clothing.

* * *

_Two months ago_

_The Hanged Man_

“Is that your fifth pint, or am I just too drunk to tell?” Hawke asks their younger sibling, accompanying their question with a quick ruffle of Carver’s hair. The younger Hawke scowls, drawing away slightly as he brings the mug to his lips for another mouthful.

The Hanged Man is empty, save for the four of them -- Varric, Isabela, Hawke and Carver. The innkeeper gives up an hour after regular closing time and leaves them with a request not to throw up all over his counter. They have become unwitting regulars -- though, for Varric, it was quite likely intentional -- and Isabela all but helps herself to the ale inside storage when they run out of alcohol to drink. Hawke is enough of a prominent figure, such that Kirkwallers and Fereldan refugees alike have begun to give them a wide berth.

“None of your business,” Carver retorts, after he swallows the ale. “I’m nineteen next month. Which means you can get off my back now.”

“I’ll let Mother decide,” Hawke says, but there’s no weight to their threat - Leandra would flay them both alive if she knew they were both getting drunk. They look around for a moment, eyes glazed over with the fog of alcohol. “Oh, bugger. Has Merrill gone home already?”

“She’s a lightweight,” Isabela chimes. “And she has a particularly sensitive nose. I suspect she’ll be dreaming of ale tonight.”

“Ooh,” Hawke chuckles, clearly mocking. “Why haven’t you sent your lady home, Carver?”

“What!” Carver slams his mug down on the table, fire in his cheeks. “Why should -- Merrill can take care of herself. I’m not anyone’s bodyguard.” He avoids his sibling’s gaze, and instead comes face to face with Isabela, who shoots him a knowing look.

“You’re an open book, you know.” Isabela leans back in her chair, stretching like a cat. “You should tell her if you like her instead of keeping it to yourself like a sexually repressed schoolboy --”

Hawke chokes on their ale, and bursts out laughing just as the foul dwarf beside him lets slip a chuckle. “Andraste’s ass, Isabela --”

“I’m not --” Carver begins, but is silenced immediately by the slender finger on his lips. Isabela’s too close, now, swaying with imbalance from overindulgence -- but somehow he figures she’s the most sober one of all.

“Of course you’ll deny it, but you know yourself best, kitten,” Isabela all but coos, sending shivers up and down Carver’s spine. “And I’ve seen and experienced every stage of lust and infatuation. Take some advice from your betters, for once --” A wink, and Carver wants her out of his face. “Show her what a big, strong warrior you are.”

“I’m going to throw up,” Hawke mumbles, somewhere behind Carver.

“I know what to do, I don’t need you giving me advice --” Carver steps out of his chair, proud of the fact that he hasn’t quite lost his balance yet. He reaches into his pouch, digging for the silvers he owes them for the drinks.

Isabela smirks. “Tell me you at least know how to please a woman.”

“I do!” Carver tosses the silver at the pirate, and she catches it effortlessly. “And I’m leaving.”

“‘Tis better to give than to receive, kitten,” Isabella calls after him, above the uproarious laughter of Hawke and Varric combined. “Remember that, if you’re going to remember anything at all in the morning.”

* * *

_Present day_

“Are you -- sure about this?”

“Yes. I think --  yes.” Carver shakes his head. No display of uncertainty will reassure her _or_ him. Her hand slides into his, and he grips it firmly. “Trust me.”

“I do,” Merrill relents easily. “I trust you.” Her eyes are wide, eager -- _earnest_. Carver’s heart clenches against his will, and he brushes the inside of her thigh with a hand, reverent. Gentle. At his touch comes a slight tremor, and his gaze flickers back to Merrill again. Her eyes are half-lidded, heavy with what he hopes is mutual desire.

 _Maker’s breath. You are beautiful_ , Carver thinks. “Good,” he answers, voice soft. “Good.” He strokes her thigh again, and kisses a trail down towards her core, the fluttering in his chest reaching a rather overwhelming crescendo as he nears -- he hears Merrill sigh -- was that exasperation? Was he far too slow? Was he --

“Oh!” Merrill bursts into giggles, like a shower of color and sparks, when he moves his head too fast and bumps his nose against her. “That was -- was that part of the plan?”

“Uh,” Carver says dumbly, staring between her legs. His face is catching fire -- no, his entire body is catching fire. “Well, that was…” He lifts his gaze. “I’m more of the improvising kind… I guess.”

Merrill just stares at him, and he holds her gaze -- far too afraid to look away. He’s not embarrassed, not really, no --

“You’re turning red,” she says, and claps a hand to her mouth to suppress her laughter. “Oh, Carver…”

“I, uh --” He laughs, a strange, high-pitched noise -- _Maker, that_ was _embarrassing_ , _what the hell are you thinking --_ “That’s not funny. Not, um. Not in the slightest.”

Merrill doesn’t relent, and the sound of her laughter is far too enchanting. Carver lets out a groan, dipping his head in shame without giving spatial awareness much thought and immediately regrets doing so; he bumps his head directly against her wetness and she lets out a sharp squeak, so sudden it was that he, too, let out a frightened yelp.

A beat passes as he stares in horror, and Merrill sits up, laughing. Again.

This time, he cannot contain the snort and drops his head in his hands, still positioned between her legs. Isabela’s words come back to haunt him and he curses the pirate captain internally, curses everything that had anything to do with his endless blunders; at the back of his head, he desperately hopes his sibling never hears a thing about tonight.

“Carver -- oh, Creators, it’s alright, come here --” Merrill struggles to say, in between giggles.

“What -- no! I’m not abandoning my post, I’m -- I’m seeing this through,” Carver protests lamely, looking up at her with a frown. “Even if it _is_ my first time. I finish what I start.”

“And you take this far too seriously, vhenan --”

“What’s that?” Carver interjects. “That word you just used.”

Merrill’s cheeks color considerably. “Oh, that’s… um. It’s elven. For ‘my heart’.” And she stops there and then. It takes Carver a few seconds to understand what she’s just said. _My heart. Oh, like… oh._

“...That’s nice to hear,” Carver mumbles. “I mean it.”

“Oh. Well, I’ll -- keep that in mind, yes.”

“Aaaand now I really want to kiss you again.”

Merrill’s cheeks redden, and a smile lights up her face. “Ah, you say the sweetest things, sometimes.”

Carver sits up and leans close, boldness returning to him once more. “I’m not hearing a no,” he says softly, touching his forehead to hers.

“I’ll never say no to you,” she answers, and he is lost in her again, kissing her deeply. She responds in kind, arms locked around his neck and pulling him down on top of her, her light moans and whimpers doing absolutely everything to keep him focused. He feels the sudden roll of her hips and he lets slip a groan, trailing kisses along the curve of her neck --

And then her hand slips between them to grab a hold of him.

He gasps, equal parts surprised and pleased -- Merrill takes this as a good sign and slowly works him into a gradual frenzy; he nips lightly at her shoulder, relishing her touch, her grip on him, her name on his tongue like a quiet prayer -- and he has never prayed a day in his life.

He turns his head to kiss her again, hungry as she parts her lips for him, desperately in need of her. They share a laugh when they bump noses in the height of their excitement, and Carver takes the opportunity to surprise her, slipping a hand between her legs, fingers exploring -- tentatively, at first, before confidence returns to him. She shivers at his touch, little earthquakes left in the wake of his ministrations, and soon he has her flat on her back again, legs parted.

He resumes his initial position, running his mouth over the gentle curve of her belly, and finally reaches the pool of heat between her thighs. He kisses her there, without rushing, and laps away with his tongue, like waves rushing to meet the shore of a beach. Merrill’s voice reaches his ears as she moans, a high sound, and at the mention of his name Carver is spurred to bolder action. His hands rest against her thighs and keep her legs apart as he tastes her -- _vhenan_ , she says -- and closes his eyes as her hips roll with increasing intensity each time, meeting her eagerly with his mouth and reassuring touch.

She trembles beneath him, calling his name like how she addresses her Creators -- Carver is unrelenting, working his tongue inside her with all the energy of a man with nothing to fear until her thighs tighten around his head and she comes, beautiful and spent and so very lovely. He doesn’t waste a drop, drinking her in like he hasn’t had water in days, until she’s finally laughing again and complaining about how much it’s starting to tickle.

He sits up and she pulls him in for another kiss, wordless but purposeful, and they fall into each other again.

She presses her lips to his ear as her legs come around his waist. “Your turn,” she says, and he lets out a breathy laugh.

Carver decides he adores Merrill even more when she’s in control, and doesn’t complain in the slightest when she pushes him on his back and plants herself directly on top of him, his stiffness sliding inside just _perfectly_ \-- Carver practically growls and is embarrassed to hear her laugh in response.

Just then, as he’s straining to roll his hips and gain some momentum, Merrill leans over and kisses him on the mouth. Her voice is low when she speaks: “Would you like to learn more elven?”

Carver groans, a weak smile on his lips. “Now is… _really_ not the time… but sure.”

She smiles, delighted, and shifts herself slightly for more comfort -- the movement, however miniscule, drives Carver nuts; waves of pleasure assault him mercilessly, and he squeezes his teeth together to hold himself back. He doesn't want to get ahead of himself, not yet.

“ _Ar lath ma._ ” The sound of it is so beautiful, Carver doesn’t even care what it might mean -- but then he centers himself with effort and meets her gaze. Focus.

“What does that… mean?” he asks weakly. If he dies like this -- well, there are worse ways to die. And he considers this the _best_.

Merrill shifts again, and Carver realizes at last that she might be doing it on purpose --

“I love you.”

His heart stops.

She is watching him, half-curious and half-afraid, and he reaches up slowly to hold her face in his hands. A thumb absently strokes her cheek, tracing her tattoos -- what was it? Vallaslin? -- gently.

“That’s -- good,” Carver croaks. “... _ar lath ma_ as well.”

Merrill giggles, relief flooding her features. “We can work on grammar later, I suppose.”

“Later,” Carver all but whines. “Now can we get a move on, please? I’m -- not used to being held hostage like this.”

“Oh, oops! I’d completely forgotten!”

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked this, consider buying me a coffee at https://ko-fi.com/L3L05I4Q - every donation goes a long way in paying for school. Thank you!


End file.
